Rushing waters. Lush greenery. A lie that felt, sounded, and tasted real.

Behind my childhood home, through the dense woods, about a mile down the road, once you've not so legally passed through two yards in a trailer park, you'll find it.

It's large and beautiful, something out of a movie.

I begged my mother many times to take me to see it, but she only ever grew confused at my requests.

Despite her denial, I knew what lied there.

A waterfall as large as the monument I went to for my second grade field trip. It stood proudly against the backdrop of the suburban neighborhood that shied behind it, vines and trees sticking out of the side, begging to be climbed.

Memories filled my head, yet no one else seemed to remember.

That was fine, I thought. I would convince them.

I thought the waterfall looked best at night, where the starry sky glittered off of the flowing rapids. So, just after my mother fell asleep, I took off to prove it.

The path was different than I remembered, but after walking further than anticipated, I found the trailer park I recalled. Before I could even pass through the first yard, a vicious dog barking paled my skin, making me nervous. However, I had something to prove, venturing on.

I got to the woods, trees standing smaller and slightly different than when I had seen them before, but the very idea of being basically correct up to that point drove me on ward.

As a pre-teen, I finally allowed myself to understand that the waterfall was, in fact, a dream. A reoccuring dream that felt so real, I had tried to convince my entire family that it existed for six years.

I still recall the anguish on my mother's face when I came back home the next morning.

The police in the living room.

My brother hitting me in the arm, then pulling me in for a hug.

The despair I felt knowing that the beautiful scenery I thought was so close to me was a wonderful lie I constructed because I wasn't happy with the yellowing plains I saw around town.

But it had looked so real.

Felt so real.

Even tasted real.

...

It had been a lie, hadn't it?

Until the awful day comes when you lose a parent, they seem invincible. You see them hurt and get hurt all of your life, but they always manage to beat the odds; To continue living and smiling and yelling at you to "stop annoying your brothers!"

Until, one day- They don't.

One day, you're sitting at home asking yourself, "When was the last time I called her?" And the next, you're woken up at 9:32 in the morning to the news that will have you on your hands and knees, begging for something to just bring her back.

And you know in your heart that it's no ones fault, but you want to blame everyone and everything. You feel sick to your stomach all the time because you had so much left to talk to her about; So many memories to share with her.

Moving into your dorm room, her meeting your first boyfriend (and disliking him), graduating college with a bachelors in something probably computer related but you haven't quite decided, moving into your first apartment that she suddenly wants to move next door to, her meeting your boyfriend that will eventually become your husband (and disliking him too).

Planning your wedding.

Letting her hold your first child.

Getting onto her for spoiling them, to which her excuse would be, "but that's what grandmas do."

But you have to stop. Remember, this isn't about you. You've got to pull it together and keep going because she was always proud of you and there's no way in hell you're going to let her down now.

So, you stop. You pull it all together like a piece of paper torn to shreds gets taped back together- It's not quite right, but it'll do.

You do it because she would have wanted you to. Because despite all of the times you two fought, she loved you.

God, you loved her too. Still do. Won't ever stop loving her.

And sometimes, you wonder if she knew that (she did).

You have to start taking the memories that make you cry, like when you got sick and she'd drop whatever she was doing to baby you on her bed, bringing you sprite and a fan, singing to you. Even when it was senior year of high school and you should have been able to take care of yourself. You have to make those memories into happy ones. Something to smile about, laugh, and maybe even get a bit embarrassed.

Because she wouldn't have wanted you to cry; She wouldn't have wanted to see you give up at such an important time in your life.

So you pull it together- a taped up piece of paper still getting the job done.

You do it for her.

Joy was her name, the small child growing in the confines of her womb. She was joy, and she was beautiful.

Surprise was the shattered glass on her parent's new hardwood floor. It was the inflection in her father's voice when he asked, "Whose?"

Content rested as feathers in her pillows, supporting her growing weight while she ran clammy fingers over her taut abdomen. 

Hurt swirled in the forgotten bottle of tequila under her sink, the one that still held two different lip prints from the night that ended in blood and tears and regret.

Remorse slept with a torn look on his handsome face three apartments down, tossing and turning in his sleep from dreams of the word "no."

Forgiveness was in the apologies spewed from truthful lips, the creased eyebrows, the sobbing she heard through thin walls. But more than that, it was in the ashes of torn clothes she burned.

Fear was the drip of sweat that cascaded down her legs, seeping into the thin material of her shoes at the uncomfortable twist in her side.

Confusion took form of the thick black glasses perched at the end of the doctor's nose while he read over newly printed sheets of paper. It lost itself somewhere between agony and heartbreak when he finally looked her in the eyes.

When rage entered, it shocked her gentle heart. An axe to her morals just like the baseball bat she took to his car. The car that had once given her comfort, the car that had once almost been theirs. 

Grief blared in the night with calls. Parents. Sister. Boss. That is until she heard his voice on the speaker and unplugged the cord from the wall, scraping fingers across a greasy scalp.

Coping fell from the diaper box one at a time, landing with thuds into the dumpster behind her building. It was soon covered by colorful onesies and unused shoes.

Joy was her name, the small child no longer growing in the confines of her womb. She was joy, and she was beautiful. Even if she didn't stick around long enough for Love to see her.

Sweaty palms bled with crescents.

Black veils on pinched noses.

"I can't believe this happened."

That's what she told me.

"It should have been you."

There’s a word more evil- more sinister- than any other. It leaves a rather unpleasant taste on the peaked taste buds of wet tongues everywhere. Maybe unpleasant isn’t the correct word for it. Vile, foul, disgusting, putrid; any synonym stands in the shadows of it, only adding layers to the horror.

What word, you ask, could evoke such an ardent response simply by allowing it to slip past lips or spill onto a page?

Hunger.

At first read, it seems no more harmful than any other. 

Merriam-Webster defines it as, ”feeling an uneasy or painful sensation from lack of food;” 

Such words, of course, reveal no underlying depravity. A methodical observance with no bias, no feeling. To read this definition with naive eyes and feel nothing is to be expected. But to observe hunger up close... That’s an entirely new experience riddled with it’s own consequences. 

There’s many different kinds of hunger. Hunger for food, hunger for affection, hunger for property, and hundreds more. 

Everyone comes into contact with their own form, but the one that brings revulsion to the hearts of many is the one defined above. However, at the same time, not. Not the hunger that has you wandering to the fridge or the nearest store; this is the hunger that drives you to insanity. The kind of starvation that burns morals to the ground and stomps on them with a toothy grin covered in gore.

Andrew wasn’t paying enough attention when it stumbled into his lap, mistook it for a man more interested in him than he was comfortable with in that dive bar wherever the hell he was. It brought back a look from his youth. A man sitting on the side of the road, body wrapped in a large, filthy blanket, eyes sunken and cheeks hallow. Andrew had rolled down his friends car window, zealously throwing an enormously large cup of soda at the homeless man, hitting him right in the chest with that pitch he had perfected after seven years of baseball. 

The look in the eyes of the man staring at him now made him restless, so he’d grabbed his girlfriend’s tiny dark hand, squeezing in emphasis to the fact that he was with her. A girl. His girlfriend. With breast and sweet doe eyes that made his blood drift downwards.

Relief washed over him with waves when he saw the man move his attention elsewhere, and Andrew finally gave Kendra the awareness he had been neglecting her the whole night. 

“Where were you, baby?” she asked, pulling away from his tight hold to lay her hand on the back of his neck, noting the perspiration building among the tiny hairs.

Andrew’s eyes narrowed without knowing, jerking his head away from her invasive fingers. “I’ve been here the whole time. How did you not notice me sitting beside you?”

 Kendra sighed, eyeing the room in her attempt at avoiding her boyfriends glare. “I meant in your head. You were with me physically, but not mentally,” she scooted to the edge of her stool in discomfort. “Or emotionally,” her quiet mumble added.

“Whatever, you know I’m not, like, into talking about stuff,” he so eloquently provided, once again leaving Kendra squirming. 

They stopped speaking after that, and later, Andrew wished he had just kissed her and left to their hotel, whispering apologies that he probably wouldn’t have meant.

In his pouting, he almost didn’t see the man from before return, same perverse gaze from before, but this time accompanied by four other men. He couldn’t quite recognize what had been clouding their expressions then, but he soon learned. 

The couple was leaving out of the building and heading through the alley that they had taken to get there from the hotel when Kendra spoke up again, reaching for his hand.

“Andrew, there’s someone here.”

Andrew immediately spun around, searching the dark, but finding no one. “Come on, Ken. Stop worrying.” But inside, his stomach was churning butter made from bile and four hour old hot wings that had taken up too much space. 

The next sign that something wasn’t quite right came when Kendra knelt over, scraping the brick wall with her fingertips. “Andrew, I don’t feel so good.”

Andrew grabbed her shoulders softly, watching her with concern and annoyance. She had been drinking too much. This was her fault. “I’m going back to the hotel. Find me when you learn your limits,” he shot back, lifting himself from her crumpled form and moving out of the alley.

When the sharp pain cut through his head, rendering him helpless while large, calloused hands yanked him up from the pavement, Andrew could see Kendra now laying in a puddle of her own vomit a block away, not noticing him while she held her hair above her head.

“What-what’s going on?” His voice was rasped by the gurgling of saliva in his throat. He wanted to sound intimidating, but sounded nothing more than an elderly man deprived of his daily glass of water. 

They didn’t answer him, and within moments, the world switched from hazy vibrant colors to deep, irrefutable black. 

When he awoke, it wasn’t to Kendra picking up his socks and underwear like he usually did on a Sunday morning. 

It was to flat yellow teeth on his naked inner thigh, biting down just right for him to not know if it was playful or malicious, but breathed out something akin to a groan anyway. Then, Andrew saw the man from the club, teeth still pressed against his skin, and before Andrew could protest, the teeth sank in completely, tearing the flesh and gashing through the muscle like a fork through roast beef. Warmth dribbled down his spasming legs and he curled his toes from the white hot pain the wracked up his spine and out his eyes, feeling like they were going to pop out and bounce along the floor until finding purchase in the dirt. He screamed, shrieking aimlessly into the dark room, listening as the sounds echoed back to him. It oddly made him feel less alone.

Another mouth bit through the skin of his shoulder, eating him alive with vigor, Andrew recognized the look on their faces. 

He’d never seen it so pure before.

Never witnessed it beyond a sharp pain when he went too long without food. 

But this- this was beyond that. This was insatiable.  

Hunger.

Heroin loved me. 

The moment the needle pierced the scrubbed red skin in the crook of my elbow, I knew she was a little weary, but when I pressed down and an explosion of relief and ecstasy shoved me off of the edge of stress and into the loving arms of absolution, it was clear she had grown fond of me.

Staying in bed with her after felt like coming home, and when that glorious feeling eventually fled, my palms began itching for her. I was falling in love, hard and fast.

Life crashed and crumbled after that, sputtering to a grinding halt, but I didn't blame her once. She was there for me through it all, my beautiful white lady. During my lows; during my highs; during the roller coaster of events that at one point might have consumed me. 

Even when I ceased cleaning my arm and the syringe before slipping it into the warmth of my body because it no longer seemed as important, she loved me. Even as I slowly cut all connection with my family members because they didn't approve of her, she loved me. Especially when my teeth began to ache, like they were planning a jailbreak the next time I fell asleep with heroin in my arms, she loved me.

Sure, there were negative aspects that came with it, but I didn't care. She accepted me, she cared for me, she let me know that no matter what happened or who left, her feelings would never change.

Laying on that bed from years before, recreating the world shaking events, I stare at the crusted dirt clinging desperately to under my chipped nails. Vision closing in, breath escaping me in uneven gasps, final fleeting thoughts sweep past consciousness. 

I'm hers, and she's mine.

Isn't it true love when you're willing to die for it?

He didn't want to do it. 

When he slid the blade deep into her temple, feeling the deceptively soft click of it cutting through the skull, it was like his hands weren't his own. When the blood began to pour like a waterfall from the wound, bathing his hands in the physical form of his actions, he knew that he'd be seeing red gloves for years to come. 

Only moments before, she'd said, "I love you."

But after the words were spoken, the feeling of pure, unadulterated love that he expected to rupture from his body never came. Instead, it was as if his entire body had gone completely numb, leaving him a victim held captive in the impenetrable cage of his mind. 

She fell to the ground with a thud, mouth opened wide in a wordless scream, blue lifeless eyes still holding onto the betrayal that would be the last thing she ever felt. 

His knees gave. 

His head throbbed. 

His heart shattered. 

Gripping the sides of her face, he hoped to God this was a nightmare and she'd wake up, maybe even returning the favor and digging her own knife into his gut so that he could be with her even in death. 

Then his wrist flicked without consent, sending an echoing crack throughout the kitchen. Their kitchen. The one they had planned and blueprinted together. The one she had specifically insisted was large enough for her not to be disturbed when their children ran through. Her belly was starting to grow large, had even started complaining about how her clothes no longer fit right so she could justify buying more.

What had he done?

Something that sounded like static shocked his ears, making him look away from his dead wife for the first time. 

"Twelve," a voice called, but there was no one in the room. The sharp sound rang in his head like a thought, making him wonder if it had been his own voice all along. "Your mission is complete, return to base."

Ah. 

The accustomed feeling of real memories replacing fake crowded his head, but by now he'd been through this enough to know to hold himself up with something sturdy. 

When all was right once more, Twelve looked down at the fallen women with something less than sympathy. He removed the scarlet blade from her head, wiping it on the fabric of his pants. Then he left the house, body now moving in the way it was originally programmed to. 

Fierce.

Powerful.

Inhuman.

We're all caught in their strings, our actions aren't all our own.

But sometimes they are, and we just don't have the ability to care.

She's just a child, really. A nineteen-year-old child, yes, but a child nonetheless. She's never left the state, barely even made it past Birmingham. Even then, she couldn't help the restless sensation sweeping through her. 

Most people her age have a job, a car, a boyfriend. 

She had none of the above. A job was too difficult to keep while going to college and taking care of her mother. A car? Well, that whole lack of a job thing probably explains that. But, she has a bike. It has a cute little basket on the front, long-forgotten pink and white tassels sitting on the dusty shelf at the top of her closet. 

The last part- the boyfriend. That made her laugh. Not a petite giggle that might come from someone most called a child; it was a loud, throaty laugh that began in her chest and erupted from her full lips. Tears fell freely, sliding down the arch of her cheeks until they relinquished their grip on her face and splashed to the ground. 

And then she was actually crying. 

No, she didn't have a boyfriend. Didn't have someone to play with her long brown hair that stood out amongst a family of blondes. Didn't have a partner in crime, someone to leave the house with after dark and venture out into the world with wide, naive eyes full of wonder. 

That didn't mean she wasn't in love, however.

Beau was a simple man, by all accounts. Attractive, or so the women at the bar told him when they ran their hands across taut, jean covered thighs. But he was far from a boy scout- The coarse nearly ginger facial hair and scowl that typically accompanied it quickly reminded people of that fact. 

It wasn't that he was rude, per se. In fact, once you got past the rough exterior, he could be a kind man. Not loveable or sweet or any of those other things that disarm people, but kind? He could manage that.

Most people didn't stick around long enough to find that out, though. The one-night stands who he shared beds with were just that- one-night stands. Words shouted in the heat of passion didn't count, after all. 

The closest thing he had to a friend is Joseph, his greasy colleague that works with him at the bar, Lamarck's. But their friendship was little more than Joseph attempting to skip out on cleaning up and Beau calling him out on it. So, yeah, friendship wasn't a part of the Beau Gleeson package.

Unless, of course, you counted Natalie, his neighbor. He wasn't sure if she qualified. She was just a kid, even if her driver's license told him otherwise. Didn't know horse shit about the world around her, somehow looking at everything with a nice little rosy tint. When something does happen to slip past her hazy gaze, infiltrating the walls she built by hand, brick by brick, the girl merely scrunches her nose. Never yells, doesn't cry much. 

Beau didn't know why or how, but that short little kid left him defenseless against her careless charm. Yeah, that 'disarming' thing he mentioned earlier? She had that in spades.

Between the two of them, Natalie was by far the strongest. When they spoke, his powerful frame towering over her by nearly a foot, she would peer up at him with the confidence of a thousand men. Natalie wasn't afraid of him. Didn't look at him like he might beat her bloody if she spoke wrong. Ever so often, he thought he might even see her look at him with a bit of adoration. 

Yeah, right.

In the end, when all the blood has dried into a flakey brown and both of them are only recognizable by the names given to them in an old life, maybe they'll tell each other the truth.

Sucking.

Gasping. 

My God, selfishly inhaling all of it.

How he could just stand there, watching somewhat disapprovingly with his hip cocked and a hand lying idly on top of it was beyond my comprehension. Didn't he know I was dying tonight? Didn't he realize that this was the last thing I'd ever consume?  

It didn't take long for them to inform me that my choice had been an odd one, as if I hadn't known that from the get-go. They had even asked me to reconsider, telling me that they might not even be able to provide it in time. But, it was my choice, after all, and I enjoyed control in all situations. 

Most picked something comforting, like fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and a soda that reminded them of when their mother still cared.

So when I asked for a Fugu Puffer Fish from the awful (and quite possibly illegal) Japanese restaurant down the road from where I once dwelled, the overwhelming mass of raised eyebrows brought out a rare chuckle from deep within. 

After slapping the white plate down in front of me three days later, the guard turned to the other, both pairs of eyes lingering on me like an animal in a zoo as they conversed. The only humans in the room.

"I heard those fish can kill you when you don't cook it right," he'd said to the shorter, heavier in the middle man.

"Oh yeah?" the round one questioned, amusement intertwined with ease. They knew I was no threat to anyone. At least, they assumed. "Think he knows that?"

I did.

It was a particularly beautiful day, sky gleaming vibrantly as it surrounded the blazing sun; air thriving with wind. It was all quite ironic really, the blue of the sky and our hair whipping around chapped faces. With how alive everything felt, it was easy to forget the world was dead.

Tap tap.

And just like that, the flourishing air that once lured me into a false sense of security is painfully ripped from my lungs, leaving me gasping through the crinkled tube that is my throat. I swallow in an attempt at remaining calm but it feels like eating broken glass. Suddenly, it courses through me; fear of now. Fear of what is to come.

My chest is beginning to heave as my mind twinkles with black dots, but I must hide it from them. They can't find out.

Bang! Bang bang!

Ignoring the whimpering beside me, I slip into the façade I’ve learned to adopt with ease. Despite the trepidation that is forcing me to grip my fingers just a little tighter than necessary, I hold steady. I can’t slip up. Not here, not now.

More banging and illiterate yelling follow soon after, clanging that slams against the window. The kind of noise that can only come from heavy metal hitting glass. My mind is fighting with the instinct to look up.

“You think this is a game? Wanna play a little cat and mouse?” the repulsive voice asks, the very tone seeping in utter sleaze, compelling me to squeeze my legs together until I feel the sides of my knees begin to numb. “I like games,” he states matter of factly, and in my peripheral vision, I can see him dragging his soiled bone-like finger down the cold glass.

My eyes eventually give in begrudgingly and land on his own. The flesh around them has begun to sag in downward arrows, slowly dragging him to hell one year at a time. Dark orbs of shit brown gaze through me, his flaky skin blotchy from years of being exposed to the sun. I suppose pillaging and murdering people is best done in the light of day when the terror you strike in your victims is almost painfully evident.

“I'll be the cat,” he informs me with glee, and his friend behind him laughs. As if this really is a game and someone will not be dying here this evening.

Yet, I keep my mouth closed. Self-preservation tells me I’m in no position to taunt, even if the words are sluggishly crawling up my tongue.

“Open up, little mouse!” he screams vehemently while waving his gun like it’s going to spray water instead of lead.

Without the weapon, he wouldn’t be too menacing. None of them would. Just three men in hoodies and red bandannas covering their mouth and nose who got their grubby hands on some old guns.

However, my hands are currently empty.

The organ in my chest has begun to actually pain me, the dull ache spreading like wild fire within the dry forest of my body. I’m desperately searching for my own weapon amongst this monstrosity of a car, yet each time I reach, all I find is more wrappers. Wrappers. Bottles. More wrappers. How anyone could consume so much junk is beyond me.

The childish whimper pulls me from my annoyed state, informing me once again of just how dire the situation is. Beside me, she’s sucking in all the air. “Oh god, we’re fucked,” she whispers with a crack in her usually gentle voice, covering her face with her hands.

The man beats harder on the window. “Open the door!” another one with a higher voice yells, his gun pointed directly at me. I look at him, then look down the barrel of his weapon. I can see the shaking in his hands, and suddenly I am more aware than not of what these men plan to do with us.

"You’re going to kill me no matter what I do," I tell him, and for a split second, the man seems to look at me like I’m not just something in the way of his wish to get inside this car. In that moment, he regards me as a human being. He must be new to his way of life.

But, then she begins pleading with tears streaming and her hands up in surrender, and the pride must have taken over him because I could see where the smirk made his eyes quirk up at the corners. That smirk that told me he wasn't going to spare us the torture he had in store.

“Just let them in, Nat!” she cries, pulling on the shoulder of my shirt. I look back at her, smile sadly, then reach out to touch her face. This might be the last time we see each other.

Her eyes close and I watch as she attempts a smile, but it can’t be anything besides a grimace. A tear slips from between her lids, gliding artfully down her cheek, like some god given salvation to my wild fire.

The pads of my fingers are so close, the dirt on her skin calling to me, and the world goes into a fast blur. There’s three horribly sonorous gunshots, and then the thud of something dense hitting hard surfaces.

It takes me a minute to get my bearings straight, but when I do, all I see is her. Literally, as she is blocking my vision.

“Nat!” she wails leaning over me. I hear her, I do, but I’m not really paying attention. I can feel my heartbeat finally slowing to a human pace.

She’s mostly on top of me now, tears slithering down her face and onto my shirt as she struggles to look out what’s left of the dirty window. She needs to see if they’re gone. Needs to look at the men I shot, who now lay with bullet wounds in each head, glass shattered all around them.

When she does, I know. Her breath stops for what feels like hours before starting up again in strong heaves, and her entire body is rigid as she slowly starts to back away from me.

She’s never seen me murder before.

I can tell she is having trouble with the reality of it all. The wheels are spinning in her head, but it’s as if they’ve encountered mud and are stuck slinging dirt but getting nowhere. Slowly, she manages to get out, “You killed them.”

Her breathing has become panicked, and I want to calm her down, but I know she’s frightened of me right now. She has made distance between us of more than the width of the car will allow, her back pressed against her passenger door as she eyes my gun. My trusty gun that has survived with me- no, let me survive, through all of this. Yet, when I look at it with pride, she watches distrustfully not even attempting to hide her scowl. If there was a pang in my heart because of it, I was now too numb to realize; the wild fire smoldering quietly in the ashes of the trees.

“This is the world we live in,” I remind her, releasing the lock and opening the door. “Men like this. They would have eaten us.”

She scoffs. “You don't know. Maybe they could have been helped!”

I had to stop her there. “No, you don't know. You've been sheltered and held up in that make believe fantasy land your father kept you in.” Flashes of companions I've had over the years flutter behind my eyes like something caught in the breeze. “Here, let me shatter those rose-colored glasses,” kneeling down, I reach into each man's pocket until I find what I already knew would be there. They are rotten, but still contrast well with the black leather of my gloves. “This is what happens when you contract it. There wasn't any saving that could have helped these guys except a bullet to the head.”

She stares down at the teeth in my hand. Her eyes widen with horror, and soon she's covering her mouth yet again. Rolling my eyes, I turn to leave, but her tender voice halts me. “Wait.” I hear her moving in the car, her hands brushing roughly across the beat up interior. Her kind fingers touch my shoulder, so I look back at her. She looks miserable.

“What?” I ask, and she responds. But not with her words. Instead, she pulls me down and, in that gentle way that only she can keep alive in this wasteland, she kisses me. It's warm and it's kind. Her hand slides to the back of my neck, and with her fingertips, she traces patterns. New lands are formed on my skin. Illustrations that nothing can compare to. Mountains standing strong and high with peeks that burst through the clouds and into the skyline of where my hair begins.

And although it is an impeccable feeling, I realize something is amiss. I don't want gentle, kind touches. These women and men that I surround myself with, sleep with, travel with- none of them are what I really need.

Then what do you need?

I need... I need...

That really begs the question, doesn’t it? The all-consuming question that one must ask themselves. But me?

I need help.

Pulling away, I can feel her sorrow coming back. I easily step over the bodies, putting my gun back in between my belt and my pants. Looking slyly over my shoulder, I see her watching me, still inside the car with a finger touching her lips. “This is where we go our separate ways, sweetheart.”

Her frightened shrieks and the sound of her yelping every time she missteps and touches a body leaves residue of a smirk on my lips as I go.

That night while trying to sleep, I feel the familiar pain of chipped fingernails digging into my shoulder. The ghost of those hands still haunts me, shaking me from my sleep with the appalling feeling of something invading my skin. I don’t remember the blood, but there are times when I dream it was everywhere, staining everything. Time’s when I look passed my invader to see a small child gazing down, and when I follow, I see that nothing on her body was safe from the splatter zone.

Then she’d look at me. Really look at me, like she expected something from me that I wouldn't give her.

And just like that, she was gone.

It never ended there, however. The bombs and the smoke followed. The things that no one expected to come, and that no one expected to survive. It kills me to not remember all of it. Knowing that something could flip my life around so quickly and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it is bad enough, but to not remember everything is simply the worst.

Yet, there are some things I have acquired from other mouths and I have been able to piece together with my own unclear memories. Of them all, I remember the whistling noises of the bombs the most, although I try to forget the shrieks that shadowed.

The blasts were spread out at first. Quick and simple. But, then it appeared as if the heat got turned up, and soon enough there wasn’t a second gone by where you couldn’t hear a blast. They tore through the air like bullets, leaving everyone hiding beneath the closest thing they could find. Friends clung to each other and covered their heads and the ones who didn’t have any people to rely on just dove down, hoping for the best. Then, there was the thing that followed, the savage mu- Wait.

I guess for this to be a good story I should tell you the beginning. How all of my nightmares commenced that one night in that tiny town in nowhere Alabama.